The Paris Apartment (25 page)

I am dusting, up on the top floor. Normally I do the hallways and staircases at this time of day—Madame Meunier is very particular
about that. But this evening I have trespassed onto the landing. It is the second risk I have taken; the first was speaking
to the girl earlier. We might have been seen. But I was desperate. I tried to put a note under her door yesterday evening,
but she caught me there, threatened me with a knife. I had to find another way. Because I saw who she was the first night
she arrived, coming to that woman's aid, helping her put the clothes back into her suitcase. I could not stand back and let
another life be destroyed.

They are all in there, in the penthouse: all apart from him, the head of the family. I could have taken the back staircase—I
use it sometimes to keep watch—but the acoustics are much better from here. I can't hear everything they're saying but every
so often I catch hold of a word or a phrase.

One of them says his name: Benjamin Daniels. I press a little closer to the door. They are talking about the girl now, too.
I think about that hungry, interested, bright way about her. Something in her manner. She reminds me of her brother, yes.
But also of my daughter. Not in looks, of course: no one could match my daughter in looks.

 

One day, when the heat had begun to dissipate I invited Benjamin Daniels into my cabin for tea. I told myself it was because I had to show my gratitude for the fan. But really I wanted company. I had not realized how lonely I had been until he showed an interest. I had lost the shame I had felt at first about my meager way of living. I had begun to enjoy the companionship.

He glanced again at the photographs on the walls as he sat cradling his glass of tea. “Elira: have I got that right? Your
daughter's name?”

I stared at him. I could not believe he had remembered. It touched me. “That's correct, Monsieur.”

“It's a beautiful name,” he said.

“It means ‘the free one.'”

“Oh—in what language?”

I paused. “Albanian.” This was the first thing I trusted him with. From this detail he might have been able to guess my status
here, in France. I watched him carefully.

He simply smiled and nodded. “I've been to Tirana. It's a wonderful city—so vibrant.”

“I have heard that . . . but I don't know it well. I'm from a small village, on the Adriatic coast.”

“Do you have any pictures?”

A hesitation. But what harm could it do? I went to my tiny bureau, took out my album. He sat down in the seat across from
me. I noticed he took care not to disturb the photographs as he turned the pages, as though handling something very precious.

“I wish I had something like this,” he said, suddenly. “I don't know what happened to the photos, from when I was small. But
then again I don't know if I could look—”

He stopped. I sensed some hidden reservoir of pain. Then, as though he had forgotten it—or wanted to forget it—he pointed
at a photograph. “Look at this! The color of that sea!”

I followed his gaze. Looking at it I could smell the wild thyme, the salt in the air.

He glanced up. “I remember you said you followed your daughter to Paris. But she isn't here any longer?”

I saw his gaze flicker around the cabin. I heard the unspoken question. It wasn't as though I had left poverty at home for
a life of riches here. Why would a person abandon their life for this?

“I did not intend to stay,” I said. “Not at first.”

I glanced up at the wall of photographs. Elira looked out at me—at five, at twelve, at seventeen—the beauty growing, changing,
but the smile always the same. The eyes the same. I could remember her at the breast as an infant: dark eyes looking up at
me with such brightness, an intelligence beyond her years. When I spoke it was not to him but to her image.

“I came here because I was worried about her.”

He leaned forward. “Why?”

I glanced at him. For a moment I had almost forgotten he was there. I hesitated. I had never spoken to anyone about this.
But he seemed so interested, so concerned. And there was that pain I had sensed in him. Before, even when he had shown me
the little kindnesses and attentions, I had seen him as one of them. A different species. Rich, entitled. But that his pain
made him human.

“She forgot to call when she said she would. And when I eventually heard from her she didn't sound the same.” I looked at
the photographs. “I—” I tried to find a way to describe it. “She told me she was busy, she was working hard. I tried not to
mind. I tried to be happy for her.”

But I knew. With a mother's instinct, I knew something was wrong. She sounded bad. Hoarse, ill. But worse than that she sounded
vague; not like herself. Every time we had spoken before I felt her close to me, despite the hundreds of miles between us.
Now I could feel her slipping away. It frightened me.

I took a breath. “The next time she called was a few weeks later.”

All I could hear at first were gasps of air. Then finally I could make out the words: “I'm so ashamed, Mama. I'm so ashamed.
The place—it's a bad place. Terrible things happen there. They're not good people. And . . .' The next part was so muffled
I could not make it out. And then I realized she was crying; crying so hard she could not speak. I gripped the phone tight
enough that my hand hurt.

“I can't hear you, my darling.”

“I said . . . I said I'm not a good person, either.”

“You are a good person,” I told her, fiercely. “I know you: and you're mine and you're good.”

“I'm not, Mama. I've done terrible things. And I can't even work there any longer.”

“Why not?”

A long pause. So long that I began to wonder if we had been cut off. “I'm pregnant, Mama.”

I thought I hadn't heard her properly at first.

“You're . . . pregnant?” Not only was she unmarried; she hadn't mentioned any partner to me; anyone special. I was so shocked
I couldn't speak for a moment. “How many months?”

“Five months, Mama. I can't hide it any longer. I can't work.”

After this, all I could hear was the sound of her crying. I knew I had to say something positive.

“But I'm—I'm so happy, my darling,” I told her. “I'm going to be a grandmother. What a wonderful thing. I'll start getting
some money together.” I tried not to let her hear my panic, about how I would do this quickly enough. I would have to take
on extra work—I would have to ask favors, borrow. It would take time. But I would find a way. “I'll come to Paris,” I told
her. “I'll help you look after the baby.”

I looked at Benjamin Daniels. “It took some time, Monsieur. It was not cheap. It took me six months. But finally I had the money to come here.” I had my visa, too, which would allow me to stay for a few weeks. “I knew that she would already have had the baby, though I hadn't heard from her for several weeks.” I had tried not to panic about this. I had tried, instead, to imagine what it would be like to hold my grandchild for the first time. “But I would be there to help her with the care; and to care for her: that was the important thing.”

“Of course.” He nodded in understanding.

“I had no home address for her, when I arrived. So I went to her place of work. I knew the name; she had told me that much.
It seemed such an elegant, refined place. In the rich part of town, as she had said.

“The doorman looked at me in my poor clothes. “The entrance for the cleaners is round the back,” he said.

“I was not offended, it was only to be expected. I found the entrance, slipped inside. And, because I looked the way I did,
I was invisible. No one paid me any attention, no one said I should not be there. I found the women—the girls—who had worked
with my daughter, who knew her. And that was when—”

For a moment I could not speak.

“When?” he prompted, gently.

“My daughter died, Monsieur. She died in childbirth nineteen years ago. I came to work here and I have stayed ever since.”

“And the baby? Your daughter's baby?”

“But Monsieur. Clearly you have not understood.” I took the photograph album from him and shut it back in the bureau with my relics, my treasures. The things I have collected over the years: a first tooth, a child's shoe, a school certificate. “My granddaughter is here. It's why I came here. Why I have worked here
for all these years, in this building. I wanted to be close to her. I wanted to watch her grow up.”

 

A word, from behind the penthouse door, and suddenly I am wrenched back into the present. I have just distinctly heard one
of them say: “Concierge.” I step backward into the gloom, treading carefully to avoid the creaking floorboards. An instinct:
I should not be here. I need to get back to my cabin. Now.

I burst back into the apartment. I go straight to my room, straight to the window, stare out through the glass. It was hell,
sitting up there with all of them. Talking, shouting at each other. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted so badly to be alone.

Mimi. Mimi. Mimi.

It takes a moment for me to work out where the sound is coming from. I turn around and see Camille standing there in my doorway,
hands on her hips.

“Mimi?” She walks toward me, clicks her fingers in front of my face. “Hello? What are you doing?”

“
Quoi?
”
What?
I stare at her.

“You were just staring out of the window. Like some sort of zombie.” She does an impression: eyes wide, jaw hanging open.
“What were you looking at?”

I shrug. I hadn't even realized. But I must have been looking into his apartment. Old habits die hard.

“
Putain
, you're scaring me, Mimi. You've been acting so . . . so weird.” She pauses. “Even weirder than normal.” Then she frowns,
like she's working something out. “Ever since the other night. When I came back late and you were still up. What is it?”

“
Rien
,” I say.
It's nothing.
Why won't she just leave me alone?

“I don't believe you,” she says. “What happened here, before I got back that night? What's going on with you?”

I shut my eyes, clench my fists. I can't cope with all these questions. All this probing. I feel like I'm about to explode. With as much control as I can manage, I say: “I just . . . I need to be on my own right now, Camille. I need my own space.”

She doesn't take the hint. “Hey—was it something to do with that guy you were being so mysterious about? Did it not work out?
If you'd just tell me, maybe I could help—”

I can't take any more. The white noise is buzzing in my head. I stand up. I hate the way she's looking at me: the concern
and worry in her expression. Why can't she just get it? I suddenly feel like I don't want to see her face any more. Like it
would be much better if she weren't here at all.

“Just shut up!
Fous le camp!
”
Fuck off
. “Just—just leave me alone.”

She takes a step back.

“And I'm sick of you bugging me,” I say. “I'm sick of all your mess around the place, everywhere I look. I'm sick of you bringing
your, your . . . fuck-buddies back here. I might be a weirdo—yes, I know all of your friends think that—but you . . . you're
a disgusting little slut.”

I think I've done it now. Her eyes are wide as she steps farther away from me. Then she disappears from the room. I don't
feel good, but at least I can breathe again.

I hear sounds coming from her bedroom next door, drawers being pulled open, cupboard doors slamming. A few moments later she
appears with a couple of canvas bags over each arm, stuff spilling out of them.

“You know what?” she says. “I might be a disgusting little slut, but you are one crazy bitch. I can't be bothered with this
any more, Mimi, I don't need this. And Dominique's got her own place now. No more sneaking around. I'm out of here.”

There's only one person I know with that name. That doesn't make any sense. “Dominique—”

“Yeah. Your brother's ex. And all that time he thought she was flirting with Ben.” A little smile. “That was a good decoy, right? Anyway. This is different. This is the real deal. I love her. It's one woman for me now. No more Camille the—what was it you called me?—disgusting little slut.” She hoists her bag higher on her shoulder. “
Bof
. Whatever. I'll see you around, Mimi. Good luck with whatever the fuck is going on with you.”

A couple of minutes later she's gone. I turn back to the window. I watch her striding across the courtyard, bags over her
arm.

For a moment I actually feel better, calmer, freer. Like maybe I'll be able to think more clearly with her gone. But now it's
too quiet. Because it's still here; the storm in my head. And I don't know whether I'm more frightened of it—or of what it's
drowning out.

I lift my gaze from the courtyard. I look back into his apartment. A few days ago, I let myself in there with the key I stole
from the concierge's cabin. I've been going into that cabin since I was a little girl, sneaking in while I was sure the old
woman was on one of the top floors cleaning. It used to fascinate me: it was like the cabin in the woods from a fairytale.
She has all these mysterious photographs on the walls, the proof she actually had another life before she came here, as hard
as it is to believe. A beautiful young woman in so many of them: like a princess from the same fairytale.

Now I'm older, of course, I know that there's nothing magical about the cabin. It's just the tiny, lonely home of a poor old
lady; it's depressing. But I still remembered exactly where she kept the master set of keys. Of course, she's not allowed
to use them. They're in case of emergencies, if there was a flood in one of the apartments, say, while we're away on holiday
somewhere. And she doesn't have a set for my parents' apartment: that's off-limits.

It was early evening, dusk. I waited, watched him go out
through the courtyard, like I watched Camille just now. He was only in a shirt and it was cold, so I didn't think he was going far. Perhaps just a few streets over to buy some cigarettes from the
tabac
, which still gave me enough time to do what I needed.

I ran down the single flight of steps and let myself into the third-floor apartment.

Underneath my clothes I was wearing the new lingerie I had bought with Camille. I could feel the secret, rustling slipperiness
of it against my skin. I felt like someone braver. Bolder.

I was going to wait for him until he came back. I wanted to surprise him. And this way I would be the one in control of the
situation.

I'd watched him so many times from my bedroom. But to stand in his apartment was different, I could
feel
his presence there. Smell the scent of him beneath the strange, musty, old-lady odor of the place. I wandered around for a
while, just breathing him in. The whole time his cat stalked after me, watching me. Like it knew I was up to no good.

I opened his fridge and I riffled through his cupboards. I looked through his records, his collection of books. I went into
his bedroom and lay down on his bed, which still had the imprint of his body in it, and I inhaled the scent of him on the
pillows. I looked through the toiletries in his bathroom, opened the caps. I sprayed his lemon-scented cologne down the front
of my shirt and in my hair. I opened his closet and buried my face in his shirts, but better were the shirts in his laundry
basket—the ones he'd worn, the ones that smelled like his skin and sweat. Better even than that were the short hairs I found
around the sink where he'd shaved and hadn't managed to wash them all away. I collected several on a finger. I swallowed them.

If I'd watched myself, I might have said I looked like someone
in the grip of an
amour fou
: an obsessive, mad love. But an
amour fou
is usually unrequited. And I
knew
that he felt the same way: that was the important thing. I just wanted to become a part of it, this world, his world. I'd
had thousands of conversations with him in my head. I'd told him about my brothers. How horrible Antoine has always been to
me. How Nick is really just a big loser who lives off Papa's money and I honestly didn't get why Ben was friends with him.
How the second I graduated, I'd be out of here. Off to travel the world. We could go together.

I found a glass in the kitchen and poured myself some of his wine, drank it down like it was a glass of grenadine. I needed
to be drunk enough to do this. Then I took off my clothes. I lay down on his bed: waiting like a present left there on the
pillow. But after a while I felt stupid. Maybe the wine was wearing off. I was a little too cold. This wasn't how I'd planned
it in my head. I'd thought he'd have come back sooner.

Half an hour ticked by. How long was he going to be?

I wandered over to his desk. I wanted to read what he was writing so late into the night—scribbling notes, typing on his laptop.

I found a notebook. A Moleskine, just like I use for my sketching. Another sign that we were meant to be:
twinned souls
,
soulmates. The music, the writing. We were so similar. That was what he was telling me that night when we sat in the darkened
park together. And before that, when he gave me the record. Outsiders, but outsiders together.

The book was full of notes for restaurant reviews. Little doodles in between the writing. Cards for restaurants tucked between
the pages. It made me feel so close to him. His handwriting: beautiful, clever, a little spiky. Exactly as I would have imagined.
Elegant like the fingers that had touched my arm that night in the park. I fell a little deeper in love, seeing that writing.

And then, on the last page, there was a note that had my name written there. A question mark after it, like this:

Oh my God. He'd been writing about me.

I had to know more, had to find out what this meant. I opened his laptop. It asked me for the password.
Merde
. I hadn't a chance of getting in. It could be literally anything. I tried a couple of things. His surname. His favorite football
team—I'd found a Manchester United shirt hanging in his closet. No luck. And then I had an idea. I thought of that necklace
he always wore, the one he said came from his mum. I typed in:
StChristopher.

No: it bounced back at me. It was just a blind guess, so I wasn't surprised. But just because I could I tried again, with
numbers substituted for some of the letters, a tighter encryption:
5tChr1st0ph3r.

And this time, when I pressed enter, the password box closed and his desktop opened up.

I stared at the screen. I couldn't believe I had guessed it. That
had
to mean something too, didn't it? It felt like a confirmation of how well I knew him. And I know writers are private about
their work, in the same way that I'm private about my art, but it now felt almost like he wanted whatever was on here to be
found and read by me.

I went to his documents; to “Recent.” And there it was at the top. All the others had the names of restaurants, they were
obviously reviews. But this one was called:
Meunier Wines SARL
. According to the little time stamp this was what he had been working on an hour ago. I opened it.

Merde
, my heart was beating so fast.

Excited, terrified, I began to read.

But as soon as I did I wanted to stop; I wished I had never seen any of it.

I didn't know what I had expected, but this was not it.

It felt like my whole world was caving in around me.

I felt sick.

But I couldn't stop.